


a kingdom of machinery and flesh

by darthpumpkinspice



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/F, Identity Issues, Masturbation, POV Second Person, Praise Kink, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:41:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22644283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthpumpkinspice/pseuds/darthpumpkinspice
Summary: Seven of Nine thinks of the Queen's lingering influence.
Relationships: Borg Queen/Seven of Nine
Kudos: 24





	a kingdom of machinery and flesh

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be honest here, I haven't actually seen that much Voyager! So I do apologize if this fic gets some stuff wrong:) But I had a ton of fun with the concept, and I hope you enjoy it as well:))

You are free now. You know because they tell you so.

They say: you are _released_ , you are _whole_ , you are _yourself again_.

You are no longer just seven of nine, drone of the collective; you are Seven of Nine, an individual. A human. A woman.

They encourage you to spend time with yourself, relearning how it is to simply _exist_ on your own. You sit in the dark and _think_ to yourself, and your thoughts are expansive, large enough to fill your mind on their own, and they are as sharp and crystalline clear as ice. They tell you this is _good_. You nod mutely. You do not argue back; do not say that you find the new, stark clarity of your thoughts to be winter-cold, that they howl against the empty terrain of your mind like a stranded wolf lost in the snow.

You tell yourself you do not miss the warmth of a trillion other minds nestling within yours. No.

Nor do you miss _Her_.

They say you are free of the Borg, and again you do not argue, although you know it cannot be completely true, for the simple fact that you are not free of _Her_. 

She is embedded in the soft, permeable membranes of your connective tissues, your flesh, even your brain. Her presence looms over all that you were and all that you now are. Every memory is threaded with Her essence; Her pulsating, throbbing _will_ overlaid onto all of your senses. There are traces of Her in the very circuitry of your reconstructed DNA, remnants of Her that you will _never_ truly scrub clean… as if even here, even now, She still has dominion over your body, this kingdom of flesh of bone and chemical impulses. The humans say a body is a temple, but if that is true, then _your_ temple was built in Her name, designed to worship Her and spread Her glory throughout the universe. She is the god of your body, the queen of your being, the primal underlying truth that glimmers along pathways where your organic matter has become irrevocably tangled with Her synthetic gifts. She has molded you after Herself, recreated you in Her image- Her magnificence made manifest.

The memory of Her drags your awareness towards itself with the inescapable inevitability of gravity. This time, as always, you are forced to recollect Her grandeur.

When you reach down to touch yourself, you imagine Her caressing your thighs, murmuring computations and binaries mingled with praise into your ear. You want to be perfect for Her, you want Her to look upon you and see that you are well-made, that you are obedient, that you are a reflection of Her vision.

Your fingers move in slow, deliberate circles, and as you remember the embrace of a trillion minds in perfect unison, you admit that you have been lying to yourself- you do miss the warmth of their company, you ache from their absence. You think of them around you, inside you – an orgy sharing your lust, your pleasure. You rub your clit more urgently, and the tight heat that sinks from belly to groin feels like the pulse of electricity shooting through delicate circuitry.

She shimmers in your mind, Her skin glistening, Her cunt dripping. She offers an enigmatic smile and draws you in, whispering to you dreams of perfection, of an organism beyond the biological or the synthetic. You imagine licking Her pussy, burying your tongue inside of Her, and you picture Her moaning, picture Her hips thrusting up towards you in a rhythm that is too perfectly timed to be natural. She is a program made tangible, an algorithm given form, a machine of muscle and blood and alien eroticism.

You teeter on the edge of orgasm, and the machinery embedded in your brain seems to blink star-bright to compensate for this intensely biological response. Every fiber of your being tenses, and when you cum you think you can taste perfection. 


End file.
